


the warmth of the sun

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Coming Untouched, Explicit Sexual Content, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Praise Kink, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: Mercedes sayshe’ll be alright, he just shouldn’t move his arm too much, but Dedue only hearsyour fault, your fault. He hadn’t been fast enough, weighed down by the muddy field and the weight of his armour. He had watched Sylvain fall from his horse, his throat burning raw as a scream of his name fell from Dedue’s lips.The spear had gone through his shoulder.Clean, Mercedes notes,that’s good, while Dedue watches numbly as her hands glow with a healing spell and muscle and sinew weave their way together again while Sylvain tries to crack hollow jokes with blood pooling in the corners of his lips..Dedue returns to the Kingdom Army at the Bridge of Myrddin, not expecting to receive immediate attention from only Sylvain in the midst of the fight. Trying to find the time to discuss what happened at the river isn’t easy with their respective duties, until an injury prevents Sylvain from being able to flee from a conversation neither are truly prepared to have.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 19
Kudos: 68





	the warmth of the sun

Between the pounding of his heart and the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he shouldn’t still feel the tingling on his lips.

He had finally caught up with the Kingdom Army at Myrddin—he had been hoping to meet up _before_ blood started to be spilled, but he has the unfortunate timing of arriving in the midst of the battle, where the Kingdom is pushing their way through while a few Imperials attempt a valiantly foolhardy pincer.

He’s not sure if it had been in Professor Byleth’s plans or if it was just due to his nature, but the one general amidst Dimitri’s soldiers that turns their battalion around to try to stave off the newcomers is one Dedue’s heart clenches at the sight of.

Sylvain had just had to throw himself from his steed to avoid a javelin through his chest, the Lance of Ruin quickly dispatching one soldier while another sneaks up. Dedue doesn’t even call a warning—his feet move, his axe coming down to kill the Imperial knight before Sylvain’s had a chance to look behind him.

There’s a moment, when he does. It feels like time stands still, the sounds of battle fading as Dedue’s focus hones in on just Sylvain. His eyes meet his, watching warm, brown ones brighten from surprise to an emotion Dedue can’t place. When Sylvain’s lips move, his eyes drop to his mouth, watching _his name_ be formed by wind-chapped, pinkened lips.

It’s not what he had been expecting. He had expected surprise, certain that none of them knew he lived and breathed, but not once did he expect to see complete and utter joy on a familiar, battle-worn face.

Nor did he expect Sylvain to lunge, their breastplates clanking loudly, metal ringing dully as his free hand fell on the back of Dedue’s neck, dragging him into a kiss just shy of painful from the force of it. It had been barely anything more than Sylvain’s lips slamming against his before he had pulled away, eyes still shimmering with joy, claiming they would talk more after the fight, after they won.

Yet Dedue’s lips are still tingling long after.

He’s with Dimitri and Gilbert, trying his best not to scowl at the latter man as Dimitri tries to piece together just how he lived and survived the escape from Fhirdiad. Their commander, their former professor, hovers, eyes silently assessing injuries on the two of them, their joy betrayed by the smallest crinkle at the corner of their eyes.

Dedue knows he should be focusing on Dimitri, his _King_ , one of the few people Dedue could name as a friend. Most of his attention _is_ on Dimitri; he’s overjoyed at seeing him once again, but his thoughts keep straying, focusing on the phantom sensation of lips pressed to his.

He has no idea where Sylvain is. He has his own orders to follow to properly secure the bridge, Dedue knows. He had spotted him with Felix just after the battle had ended, before Mercedes had shown up in a whirlwind of skirts to drag Dedue and Dimitri away so she could assess their wounds. They’re both fine—minor cuts and bruises, nothing they haven’t faced before—but as soon as that was determined, it was back to planning.

Dedue knows this is important, his immediate welcome back into their ranks a blessing, but his thoughts are still straying.

He knows, despite everything happening, he needs to talk to Sylvain. Even _if_ Dedue is prefers staying silent, a kiss is something that _needs_ to be talked about. He has no idea Sylvain’s intentions with it. Had it just been _relief_ , adrenaline fueled from Dedue saving his life?

Or had it been more?

Dedue is unsure if he’s allowed to hope for more, especially from _Sylvain_ of everyone.

Sylvain, who loved deeply, loved to a fault, always too caring, too kind. Dedue still knows that he’ll tense and panic if anyone ever even _hinted_ at showing him the same level of love he showed them—he remembers how flustered he would get back in their Academy days.

Five years of war, five years of separation, could have only made his heart more fragile, more well guarded. Dedue doubts he will have any chance to step back into their friendship, especially when he is too busy thinking of what could be _more._

He needs to talk to Sylvain and he makes attempts to, but ultimately fails.

They don’t get the chance, despite it starting to eat away at Dedue. The trek back to the monastery is fast paced and Sylvain stays with the other cavalry while Dedue stays up near the front with the professor and Dimitri, trying to catch up on what’s happened with little answer from his prince and the professor with Lord Rodrigue doing most of the talking.

His attention still strays to Sylvain when they make camp, but Sylvain’s a whirlwind, trying to handle what seems to be far too many responsibilities at once for Dedue to even think about bothering him with asinine questions. It’s the same once they reach the monastery. Dedue is able to settle into his former room for only a few moments before the professor starts laying out new plans, new battles for them to go fight.

He doesn’t _believe_ Sylvain’s been avoiding him, not with how many times they’ve passed glances while going about their individual tasks, but it’s hard to tell. Neither one of them have found the time to spare to carve out what promises to be a lengthy conversation, and the time they _could_ have spent has now been slated for a new mission.

There’s a few Imperial soldiers their scouts have found, attempting to set up a blockade on their supply route that they need to handle. Dedue feels he’s barely unpacked when they tell him, but Dedue is prepared to go anyway.

He spots Sylvain in the dining hall the night before they’re set to leave, chatting away with Felix and Ingrid. He could walk over—Sylvain spots him and grins, waving, but Dedue feels unreasonable dread fill his stomach. Sylvain is _grinning_ , not one of his false smiles. There is no reason why Dedue could not walk over, sit down, and join them.

He doesn’t, though.

He gives Sylvain a nod, trying for a smile, unsure if he succeeds based on the way Sylvain’s brow starts to furrow. He takes his food, gathering some more for Dimitri, leaving the dining hall behind him.

He’ll have to wait until they return from the mission. He _will_ find the time to talk to Sylvain. He needs to know what the kiss meant, if he’s allowed to hold out hope for more or if he should bury it down, accepting their friendship as is.

Dedue spends the rest of his evening convincing Dimitri to eat dinner before retiring for the night. The cathedral’s repairs are slow going, and the draft through the broken stone and glass makes it colder than any place should be in the midst of the Great Tree Moon.

He’s unsure where his exhaustion stems from by the time he’s back in his quarters. He has a small bag prepped for their dawn journey. The Imperial blockade is only half a day out—they’ll be back by nightfall tomorrow.

Dedue is sitting on the end of his bed, hands clasped loosely in his lap, thinking over how turbulent the last week has been, when there’s knocking on the door. He’s been debating unpacking for what feels like an hour, unable to convince himself to get up, though the knock has him on his feet in a moment. His feet feel leaden as he walks to the door, and when he opens it, he blinks, not expecting Sylvain.

He’s still dressed down, as he had been at dinner, his lips curled in an easy-going smile.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Dedue shakes his head. “It’s far too early for that, isn’t it?”

Sylvain shrugs. “We’re leaving at dawn; you could’ve wanted an early night.”

Dedue pauses for only a moment, a singular heartbeat. He had wanted this discussion to come later, not before what promises to be a battle full of bloodshed, but he has hardly ever gotten what he wants—why start now?

He shifts his weight, stepping aside to let the doorway stay open. “Would you like to come in?”

Sylvain smiles, breathtakingly beautiful, for only a second, before he shakes his head. “I won’t keep you that long,” he says, reverent, like a promise, before he sighs. “I need to apologize.”

Dedue startles, but Sylvain’s still smiling, a soft, genuine smile that’s tinged with sadness. His heart thunders in his chest, shoulders straightening.

“There is no need—“

Sylvain barrels on, regardless of his interruption. “At Myrddin, I shouldn’t have kissed you like that without asking you first. I was excited and so relieved to see you, but that doesn’t mean it was okay. My own feelings shouldn’t come over yours, no matter the situation.”

Dedue’s lips part, his heart still thumping, thoughts starting to scatter, growing restless, solely due to Sylvain’s claims of _his feelings_.

He can’t find the words quick enough. By the time he starts formulating anything, Sylvain’s stepping back, still smiling, though it’s starting to look faker by the second.

“Anyway, that’s it!” False cheerfulness has filled his tone. “I’ll see you in the morning; sleep well!”

“Sylvain, wait—“

But he’s gone, walking quickly away, his shoulders slumped. Dedue takes a step out of the doorway, ready to follow. The way he’s headed, though, is the wrong direction for him to be retiring for the evening. He’s making a beeline towards the training grounds, where Dedue is certain Felix is.

He steps back into his room, closing the door and pressing his forehead against it. Two days, he decides. Once they’re back from the mission and have been able to sleep. He’ll tell Sylvain. He _has_ to tell Sylvain.

He’s determined, despite his nerves. Resigned to it, even with the bolstered idea that Sylvain might feel the same way he does. He’ll be able to handle an open, honest conversation. Ones with Sylvain had always been easier to handle, anyway.

And then—

_And then—_

Their scouts had promised a few soldiers for the blockade. No bigger than a platoon.

What awaits them is a battalion consisting of at least one hundred soldiers, all awaiting them. A trap laid out perfectly to lure them out in the middle of a rainstorm. Felix claims it’s what happened at Ailell. Dedue doesn’t bother claiming any knowledge of their past battles, all he knows is they have to fight, outnumbered as they are.

It is this battle that rattles Dedue to his core.

Mercedes says _he’ll be alright, he just shouldn’t move his arm too much_ , but Dedue only hears _your fault, your fault_. He hadn’t been fast enough, weighed down by the muddy field and the weight of his armour. He had watched Sylvain fall from his horse, his throat burning raw as a scream of his name fell from Dedue’s lips.

The spear had gone through his shoulder. _Clean_ , Mercedes notes, _that’s good_ , while Dedue watches numbly as her hands glow with a healing spell and muscle and sinew weave their way together again while Sylvain tries to crack hollow jokes with blood pooling in the corners of his lips.

Dedue had carried him off the field, Sylvain’s delirious mumbles a tie between praise for him and the hopes they’ll get out of the rain soon.

By the time he’s gotten Sylvain back to the medical tent, he’s unconscious, and Dedue is needed back in the battle.

The image of Sylvain lying unconscious on death’s bed haunts him, even after he’s seen him awake, arm tied in a sling, grumpy that he isn’t allowed to ride by himself. He beams whenever Dedue catches his eye, winking, all smiles, all too forgiving.

Sylvain’s put on bedrest as soon as they get back to the monastery. _Not for long_ , Mercedes assures, her voice calm and gentle but the only thing Dedue can pinpoint after he heard Sylvain’s whined complaint. _You should enjoy having an excuse to slack off_ , Felix states next.

The first night back at the monastery, he eats quickly. He doesn’t, usually, knowing that fresh, warm meals are never guaranteed and that he should savour them when he gets the chance. He only eats quickly because Mercedes had approached the table he’s sitting at, with Felix across from him, and had asked if either were able to bring Sylvain dinner. Felix had made the offhand comment that he was going to, but Dedue had offered to take his place.

Despite Felix’s narrowed stare, he relents, claiming he’ll enjoy the extra time for training.

Which leads to Dedue carrying a tray of food up the stairs to the second floor of the dorms, by himself, steadily feeling like a nuisance. The tray feels heavy in his hands, despite how light it actually is. Each step that carries him closer to Sylvain’s room makes him feel a mixture of dread and anticipation.

He knows Sylvain will not mind his presence—at least, not enough to voice it aloud. Dedue has always been better at reading body language, but with his injuries, he wonders if Sylvain will even be able to convey if Dedue is unwanted or not.

Perhaps he shall just leave the food and go, so as not to make anything more awkward than it already is.

By the time he reaches Sylvain’s door, he’s taking deep breaths to steady himself. He shifts the tray in his hands to lift a hand to knock on the door. There’s not even a pause before Sylvain’s voice comes through the door, muffled but cheerful as he calls out, _It’s open!_

Sylvain looks startlingly small in the standard issue bed every single one of their old dorms held once Dedue’s cracked the door open. Mercedes had given him extra pillows to help prop him up and he drowns amongst them and the heavy quilt thrown over his lap. He’s shirtless, the bandages covering most of his shoulder, his right arm held fast to his chest by a sling. He has a book propped in his lap, but doesn’t seem to be paying it much attention, his reading glasses pushed on top of his head, nestled amongst cinnabar strands.

His smile is bright when his gaze lands on Dedue, his eyes crinkling, cheek dimpling. “Well, well, I’m getting _more_ special treatment from you, hm?”

Despite the effort to fill his tone with his usual teasing lilt, Dedue can hear the exhaustion thrumming just underneath. He steps inside, closing the door carefully behind him as he balances the tray in one hand.

“It isn’t special treatment,” Dedue tells him. “You should not be missing meals due to bedrest.”

Sylvain lets out a soft laugh, wincing slightly at the movement, doing his best to set his book aside. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you, I’m not that hungry. Mercie’s chalked me full of potions and medicine. Does wonders to kill an appetite.”

He’s still trying for lightheartedness. Dedue just frowns, setting the tray on his desk before he takes a look around the room. Mercedes has left a chair at Sylvain’s bedside, a small basket of medical supplies at the foot of it. The small table she’s pushed up next to him has a half drank mug of tea. It’s next to the untouched glass of water that Sylvain sets his reading glasses, as he lets Dedue’s gaze wander, assessing.

“You should try to eat regardless of if you don’t have an appetite. Anything is better than nothing while you’re healing.”

Sylvain hums, eyes looking towards the stone wall. The late evening sun that shines through the window paints the wall with oranges and reds, leaving Sylvain haloed in a soft golden glow that makes his red curls shimmer.

After another moment of silence, Sylvain returns his eyes to Dedue, the smile on his face tight, mirthless.

“I never thanked you.”

“You cannot change the subject that easily, Sylvain.”

He ignores the soft huff that Sylvain lets out as he grabs the smaller plate on the tray, holding a few slices of freshly baked bread. Annette had given him a fruit spread for it, knowing Sylvain might be more keen for something sugary after everything he’s gone through. Dedue sets the plate on the small table with the bowl of spread, sitting in the chair. Sylvain’s eyes track his movements, amber flickering in the evening light.

Sylvain’s eyes stay on him as he carefully smears a layer of the jam on a slice of bread, handing it over. His eyes drop to his proffered hand, then back up, that same smile on his face, a mask that Dedue’s certain Sylvain doesn’t even know he’s wearing.

“Eat first,” Dedue states. “Then you may speak.”

Sylvain does his best to pout, but after a moment and Dedue’s unrelenting stare, he folds. Always too quick to do what pleased others first. He takes the slice of bread, grimacing slightly after the first bite, but manages to finish it all without pause.

As Dedue had expected, he reaches for another slice as soon as he’s had some water to wash it down. Dedue spreads some more jam on the next one for him and waits patiently, quietly, as Sylvain eats that one as well.

He doesn’t reach for a third. Dedue doesn’t ask. Sylvain settles back against the multitude of pillows, cheeks dusted rose as he tries to press his lips together to quell them from twisting.

“Okay,” Sylvain admits, after a moment. “Maybe you were right.”

Dedue’s lips curl up ever so slightly, Sylvain’s eyes narrow at them, but he looks too amused to have any true heat behind them as he looks away, picking at a loose thread on the quilt spread over his lap.

“Can I thank you now, then?”

“You need not thank me.”

“Hey, I ate _two slices_ of bread,” he protests. “Let me thank you for saving my life.”

Dedue blinks, startled, looking to him. His brows start to furrow. “Saving your life?”

Sylvain looks at him, confusion filling his face at Dedue’s own confusion. “You saved my life, Dedue.” He gestures to his tied down arm. “I was pretty out of it at the tailend, but I know it was you that saved me and got me off the field. I have to thank you for that.”

Dedue stares at him, words failing him. Sylvain is stuck in bed for the foreseeable future because Dedue had _failed_ him. He hadn’t been quick enough, hadn’t been able to shout a warning to Sylvain to dodge the javelin that embedded its way into his shoulder, ripping through his armour like it was nothing.

“You keep saving me,” Sylvain adds, idly, an afterthought just to fill the silence that’s settled between them. His voice is soft, drifting, and when Dedue looks to him, his eyes are focused on the shadows dancing in the light on the stone wall, distorted from the windows. “One day you’re going to realize I’m not worth it. Never have been.”

It takes Dedue a moment to process those words, too lulled by the gentle and casual cadence of Sylvain’s voice. As soon as he realizes what Sylvain’s said—the weight those words hold, he feels as if he’s been hit, run down by a warhorse in the midst of battle. The air rips from his lungs, his heart starting to hammer in his chest.

“That isn’t true.”

Dedue’s never been good with words. He’s never desired to be good with words. But actions alone cannot tell Sylvain what the truth is. His statement comes out more sharp than intended, but it makes Sylvain look to him, confusion warring with the startled expression on his face.

“On that field, I was scared of losing you,” he says, words not as careful as he’d like, all but rushing out of him like a broken dam. “Do you understand, Sylvain? If you die, you will not be forgotten like you think— _hope_ —you will be. Your presence will be noticed and you’ll be missed so dearly.” He pauses as the last word falls from him like a wisp of air, trying to think of what else he can say, can _do_ , to make Sylvain understand.

Sylvain, who is too busy staring at him with widened eyes that start to shimmer with the telltale sign of tears.

Dedue reaches out, takes Sylvain’s uninjured hand between his two, cradling it like it’s the most precious thing he’s held. His own callouses catch on the ones lining Sylvain’s palm and fingers and it feels like his heart may burst from inside his chest as those fingers twitch against his palm, as if trying to find somewhere to hold.

“I cannot let Faerghus take anyone else from me. I will _not_ allow this country to take anyone else from me. If you die, Sylvain, I do not think I could bear it for a moment.”

There is silence between them, but it is not their usual silence, not the silence Dedue basks in. He's nervous, downright scared. It's a feeling he cares little for, the way it seems to have clawed its way into his chest, wrapping itself to grip his throat to tighten it.

There are reasons he never says as much as he has, always afraid of overstepping, of his words coming out stilted and awkward, their meanings taken and twisted.

Sylvain stares at him, blinking, silent. Sylvain, who normally fills their gaps with his words, silvered and flowered, ones Dedue longed to hear in their separation, a voice that teased him in dreams with the echo of a memory.

He breaks first, of course, his lips parting, a shaky exhale escaping him as Dedue still holds his hand in his own.

"Sorry," Sylvain murmurs, "Sorry, I'm just—"

Dedue shushes him, as soft and gentle as he can. "What do you need?"

Sylvain shakes his head, looking away. "Nothing. I'm fine. Thank you, for everything, Dedue, I mean it."

Dedue frowns, bringing Sylvain’s hand closer, thumb brushing over the scrapes and bruises on his knuckles.

"Tell me what you _want_ , then."

Sylvain’s eyes drop to Dedue’s mouth. He inhales slowly, remembering the frenzied reunion they had at Myrddin, of Sylvain’s hand on the back of his neck, that quick kiss pressed to his lips in a moment of adrenaline.

The apology, that Sylvain’s feelings shouldn’t come over Dedue’s, no matter the situation.

Dedue’s eyes drop to Sylvain’s lips when his tongue darts out, sliding across his bottom lip before he clears his throat, looking away. Dedue’s eyes follow the movement, lingering on his jaw and trailing down to his neck, going further when he remembers that Sylvain is shirtless due to his injury.

“What I _want_ ,” Sylvain murmurs, “is selfish.”

Deude’s thumb is still brushing his knuckles. He thinks, carefully, words weighing his tongue down, before he goes, “I have never known you to shy away from being selfish.”

The effect of his words is instant. Sylvain’s lips twitch, a smile he tries to hastily hide by digging his teeth into his bottom lip.

Dedue’s eyes focus on the lily-white of his teeth against his rapidly reddening lip, and they’re only drawn away when Sylvain tilts his head. He’s been caught staring—Sylvain’s eyes are on him, dancing with amusement.

“You’ve got me,” he says, voice half a laugh. He takes his hand from Dedue’s grasp only to trail it up, resting his palm against his cheek. “Am I allowed to be selfish with you, though?”

“You’re injured,” Dedue tells him, letting him pull him closer with the press of his palm regardless.

“That’s not a _no_ ,” Sylvain murmurs, breath warm as it ghosts over Dedue’s lips, so agonizingly close. His eyes are heavy-lidded, smouldering warmth in his gaze when Dedue’s eyes flick up.

He cannot stop the small smile that twitches his lips. “No,” he agrees, “it’s not.”

Dedue’s not sure how long he spends, leaning over the pile of pillows and bedding Mercedes had almost certainly, _lovingly_ placed around Sylvain, lips moving against Sylvain’s, breaths mingling. It’s only when Sylvain’s book, long abandoned amidst the fluff of the quilt, clatters loudly to the ground that they draw back from one another, out of breath, lips slick and bruised.

“Oh.” Sylvain lets out a shaky exhale, tongue tracing his lip. “ _Oh_.”

Dedue, unsure how to take that, starts to move back, but Sylvain’s hand moves, snaking up to grip at the back of his neck.

“No, no, no, don’t go that way—c’mere, up here.”

There’s hardly any space for two grown men with the multitude of pillows and Sylvain seems to realize that, doing his best to shove the pillows at the wall aside with his good arm as he moves. Dedue lets out a soft laugh, more of an exhale than anything, at his enthusiasm, so different from how he had been what was only moments, but felt like a lifetime before.

Sylvain doesn’t let him stay amused for long. He abandons his quest to shove the pillows away, replacing them with a flailed kick of his leg that does wonders to send pillows and blankets alike flying off the bed.

“Your arm—,” Dedue begins, but Sylvain interrupts him with a grumpy noise and a press of his lips.

“It’s fine, I’m okay, just— _here_. Come here.”

Dedue couldn’t possibly press himself any closer, but Sylvain tugs and squirms until Dedue’s got his knees pressed into the bed, straddling one of Sylvain’s thighs. Sylvain’s insistent, arching up to lick his way into Dedue’s mouth. His hand is still against Dedue’s neck, fingers tight, so unbelievably warm that Dedue wonders, briefly, if he was overheating under all the bedding. His own hands roam, one finding the dip of his waist, gentle against the rough bandages there while the other reaches up to cup Sylvain’s jaw, fingertips tracing over his heated skin.

“Please,” Sylvain begs when Dedue pulls back, smearing a trail of wet kisses along his jaw, down his neck. Dedue tries to hold himself back, starts once again to remind Sylvain he’s _injured_ , but Sylvain makes a noise, high in his throat as he rocks against the thigh between his legs. His resolve starts to crumble, absolutely shattering when Sylvain gasps another, “ _Please_.”

“Sylvain—.” He starts to draw away, and Sylvain _whimpers_ , eyes glazed over when Dedue looks to him. He smooths his thumb along his cheek, taking in a steadying breath. His lips part as Sylvain blinks his eyes clear, and as soon as his eyes land on his mouth, he all but snaps to attention, bringing his hand down his neck to cover Dedue’s own.

“If you’re about to remind me I’m injured, I am going to scream.”

Dedue huffs a small breath, lips twitching at the grin it earns him from Sylvain, still breathless and eyes all pupil.

“I’m already begging,” Sylvain continues, drawing his tongue enticingly along his kiss-bitten bottom lip. “I’ll beg some more if that’s what you want.”

“This isn’t about what _I_ want,” Dedue murmurs, leaning forward to press his lips to Sylvain’s forehead. “All I want is to make you feel good.”

Sylvain groans, rocking forward again, rutting his steadily growing erection against Dedue's thigh. Dedue can’t deny his own arousal at the sight of him, the _sound_ of him, but this isn’t about _him_. This is about Sylvain, making him feel better, feel _loved_.

“Sit back,” Dedue murmurs, pressing more kisses along his face, tilting away when Sylvain tries to catch his lips. He ignores the soft whine that falls from Sylvian’s lips, pressing him gently down against the pillows. “Let me take care of you.”

_“Fuck._ ” Sylvain sounds like the air’s been stolen from his lungs, his movements hasty as he tries his best to obey Dedue, all but flopping back against the pillows. He winces just slightly as his shoulder is jostled, exhaling a soft apology when he realizes Dedue’s noticed.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Dedue murmurs, softly, pressing another light kiss to his lips. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to touch me,” Sylvain says, without hesitating, reaching up to grab Dedue to kiss him again. “ _Please_.” A burst of warmth against his lips as Sylvain only pulls back enough to speak. “I have oil—“

It takes a bit more time for Sylvain to release him so Dedue can go fetch the bottle of oil Sylvain has in his desk drawer. Messy kisses are smeared along down his neck before Dedue’s able to step back, taking a deep breath to try to calm himself. His priority is making Sylvain feel good, but his injured shoulder is still at the front of his mind. He has his doubts Sylvain will pay any heed to it in the midst of it all—is paying it any heed now except for when he tries to grab things with his tied down hand and finds his movement limited.

Dedue finds the vial of oil in Sylvain’s desk quickly. His need to keep things neat and orderly applied to his desk drawers, and he obviously feels no need to tuck the oil somewhere completely hidden, either; it rests in plain sight in the drawer amongst quills and paperwork.

Sylvain looks halfway ravished when he turns back to the bed, freckled skin stained red by a dusty blush that coats him from his cheeks to down his neck. His teeth are digging into his bottom lip again, stifling the noises he makes as his free hand rubs across the front of his loose fit, sleep trousers.

Dedue hums, moving back to the bed. “I thought you wished for me to touch you.” Perhaps it’s not fair of him, to tease like this, but Sylvain’s pupils widen and his hand immediately stops, dropping to his side to curl into the sheets below him.

“I’ll be good,” Sylvain tells him, a low, roughened whisper. “Please, I’ll be good for you.”

Dedue hums again. _Words_ , he has to remind himself, as Sylvain’s eyes watch him, starting to haze with lust. He has to _tell_ Sylvain these things.

He reaches a hand out, fingers trailing along Sylvain’s jaw to guide him back to his mouth for a warm, soft kiss. “I know you will,” he murmurs when they part for breath. “You’re always good.”

Sylvain whimpers, eyes squeezed shut when Dedue settles back, setting the oil aside to unlace Sylvain’s trousers. When his cock is freed, the noise Sylvain makes is high in his throat, reedy, his lips parted with a gasp that turns into a drawn out grown when Dedue gives him a tentative, quick stroke.

He’s babbling already, a mixture of _please_ and _Dedue_ falling from his lips as he tries to stay his squirming. Dedue doesn’t take his time, but he does enjoy watching as he steadily strips Sylvain of his pants and smalls, enjoys watching the blush colouring his freckled skin and the sound of his breath coming out on needy gasps, already so far gone from hardly any touching.

“Darling, Dedue—please, _please_ , kiss me again.”

He would never deny him regardless, but the breathless pet name and the look in his eyes when Sylvain meets his gaze has Dedue surging upwards, hands smoothing along Sylvain’s thighs as he kisses him. Sylvain’s free hand cups the nape of his neck as he licks inside Dedue’s mouth, fingers trailing up to tug the tie from his hair. Dedue lets him card his fingers through his hair for a few moments before he pulls back.

“What do you want, Sylvain?”

“I want your fingers in me,” Sylvain declares on a breathless sigh, no hesitation or shame in his voice. "Please," he adds as an afterthought, sweet, his smile curling like liquid sunshine when Dedue hums his agreement.

Dedue shifts, settling back onto the bed, still leaning over Sylvain to brush a kiss to his forehead as he uncorks the oil.

He spreads the oil along his fingers, warming it before he brings his hand down, petting gently around his entrance. He doesn't press in, waits until Sylvain makes a soft, frustrated noise and tries to grind down against him.

He slips his finger inside slowly, carefully, watching Sylvain’s face for any hint of discomfort. He need not worry, though. Sylvain takes him greedily, a moan slipping through his lips as he rocks his hips to take more.

_"Saints_ ," Sylvain breathes, unfocused, hazy eyes looking to him. "Didn't expect your fingers to feel so different from mine."

"Does it hurt?" Dedue asks, but before he can even think of taking his finger from him, Sylvain shakes his head vehemently, spreading his legs further as if to entice Dedue to stay.

"Another, please," Sylvain says, throwing his head back when Dedue does as asked, pressing his second finger in alongside the first.

Sylvain's hand reaches up to tug Dedue's face back to him, pressing sloppy kisses along his neck in between his sharp, little pants and moans as Dedue carefully spreads his fingers, coaxing him open.

He's beautiful, like this. Dedue thinks he’s always been handsome, but Sylvain is breathtaking as he lays against the bed, kiss bitten lips parted, pupils bleeding black in warm amber as he tries to keep his eyes on Dedue. His hand grips loosely against Dedue’s arm, burning warmth in the tracks as his fingertips flex along his bicep. His little whines are still just a mix of Dedue’s name and pleas that Dedue is quick to answer.

Sylvain’s babbling only gets worse when Dedue adds a third finger, twisting, finding that spot that made his voice break on a wail. Dedue tries to steady him, murmuring praise as he brushes kisses along Sylvain’s cheek and forehead, but Sylvain is having none of it, rolling his hips down, gasping wet noises in his ear.

His words are slurred, syrupy as he clenches down around Dedue's fingers. "More," he gasps. "Please, please, _please_ —"

Dedue presses a kiss to the corner of his eye, where tears have started leaking to trail down his cheeks. He knows what Sylvain wants, but he cannot give it just yet, not while he’s healing from a severe wound like his.

"You're injured," he reminds him, softly. "Let me take care of you."

_“Fuck_ ,” he pants, his back arching, the fingers of his tied down hand curling. “Feels good.”

Dedue curls his fingers at the same time he brushes his knuckles along Sylvain’s cheek, murmuring praise that it’s _Sylvain_ who feels good, wrapped around his fingers.

The result of that combination is instantaneous. Sylvain makes a choked noise, eyes rolling back, clenching tight around Dedue’s fingers as he convulses through his orgasm completely untouched, come painting his stomach in strips of white, his voice nothing more than a keen.

Dedue slips his fingers from him, hushing Sylvain’s soft whine. He brushes sweaty locks away from Sylvain’s forehead, pressing a kiss to his cheek that Sylvain tilts to try to reciprocate, lips messily hitting his chin before finding Dedue’s lips.

It’s a languid, slow kiss this time, Sylvain completely relaxed beneath him. Dedue draws back to clean his hand and the quivering muscles of Sylvain’s stomach, smiling softly when Sylvain blinks his eyes open, chest still flushed, breathing still ragged.

“Your turn,” Sylvain manages, through shaky exhales. He looks exhausted, but sated, and his eyes are bright, his uninjured hand reaching for him.

Dedue moves away from his reach, taking his hand instead and bringing it up to press his lips to his knuckles. “No. You need rest.”

_“Dedue—“_

He shakes his head at the exclamation, the fear starting to leech into Sylvain’s expression. “I am not saying _no_ forever. Just until you are healed.”

Relief flashes across Sylvain’s face, softening his eyes before his lips twist into a pout. “I don’t need two hands to suck your cock.”

Dedue levels a look at him, ready to stand and leave him to rest, but Sylvain rounds his eyes on him, his pout almost as deadly as Annette’s.

“Please?”

“We are not having this conversation,” Dedue states.

“It doesn’t have to be a conversation! Just help me off the bed and I can suck—“

“Syl _vain.”_

“De _due.”_

They stare at one another for a moment before Sylvain huffs.

“I don’t know how you can see me getting on my knees wrecking my shoulder.”

“I did not expect you to reciprocate,” says Dedue. “It was for you.”

“Yeah, but—,” Sylvain reaches out, his fingers tracing up Dedue’s thigh, inching closer and closer to his goal, “—I want to.”

“Sylvain—“

“I _want_ to,” he repeats. “Wasn’t this about me asking for things I want?”

“That doesn’t apply to—“

“Getting your cock down my throat?”

Dedue’s face goes hot, and based on the smirk that curls Sylvain’s lips up, the blush is dark enough to notice.

“Tell you what,” Sylvain begins, conversationally, as if the tips of his fingers aren’t a hair’s breadth away from Dedue’s aching erection, “let me suck you off, and then you can tuck me in, and I won’t leave bed until you let me.”

“You’re—you’re not a prisoner,” Dedue tells him, slightly startled. 

Sylvain quirks a brow, a smirk playing on his lips. “That’s not a no,” he comments, fingers moving to toy with the laces on Dedue’s trousers. “Is it a yes?”

His emotions are plain in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners with expectant hope, the way his excitement coaxes a dimple out on a cheek. Sylvain wants him to say yes—wants to do this for him. It’s all over his face, his heart out on his sleeve just like always. 

How could he possibly deny Sylvain anything, when he looks like this? Open and honest and genuinely _happy_. 

Dedue lets out a shaky exhale. “ _Yes.”_

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes u gotta make ur own food and sometimes u gotta fade to black
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wintersrose616) lmao


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